


Accent

by evieplease



Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: American Accent, American girlfriend, F/M, Hank Williams - Freeform, rant about American good-ol-boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 11:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9894983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evieplease/pseuds/evieplease
Summary: Tom tries out his American accent on his American girlfriend.  It doesn't go over too well.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a good while ago, before I knew anything at all about Hank Williams. The story is just chock full of my own prejudices. Please forgive me.

“Honey bunch? HONEY BUNCH??!" I sat up and nudged him back, a hand on his chest. 

"Really, Thomas??”

“You don’t care for ‘Honey Bunch’?” he enquired mildly, his brows up, sitting back on his heels on the bed, naked as the day he was born, although -ahem- somewhat larger.

“No. Because … ick." I shuddered delicately, giving him a gruesome look.

"Care to elaborate, darling?” his lips twitching, holding back a grin, and his eyes dancing with mischief.

I just know this is going to come back and bite me in the ass. Arse. I’m freely handing him ammunition with which to yank my chain, here…

“It’s just so… 'Patronizing Southern Male’, and honestly, if I’d wanted anything to do with THAT, I’d have stayed in the States." I said, with a moue of distaste.

"Well, darlin’- the voice was pure Elvis- what makes you think you won’t encounter 'Patronizing Southern Male’ right here in Jolly Olde England?" He grinned devilishly at me, obviously pleased with himself.

"Gah! Nope, nope, nope!" I clapped my hand over his mouth. He went still, and his eyebrows shot up.

"That’s just so very, very wrong, Thomas! Don’t DO that!”

He nodded, so I removed my hand.

“I didn’t think my accent was that bad, darling.” 

“Oh, no! Your accent was perfect! And the Elvis impression was spot-on. It’s just the disconnect of THAT accent coming out of YOUR mouth! It’s like…like hearing the Mona-Lisa swearing like a fishwife." I shuddered again. I felt like I’d been hit with… something. And something that I’d never have believed possible in Tom’s arms; I had become utterly un-aroused. De-aroused? Seriously, I could practically feel myself dry up, like a desert wind had just blown through my bits.

I clambered ungracefully over him, and off the other side of the bed, reaching down and snagging the first shirt that came to hand out of the pile of clothing on the floor- his, as it happened- and threw it on.

"I… need a drink." I muttered, not looking at him and I headed to the kitchen, pulling up in front of the refrigerator, and then just stood there with the cool air pouring out and pooling at my feet, staring blankly at it’s contents.

Tom came into the kitchen, wearing only a pair of boxer briefs, walked up behind me and wrapped his long arms around me from behind, setting his chin on top of my head, staring silently into the 'fridge over me. He stood that way for a few moments, or hours, but when it became clear that I wasn’t going to talk or move, Tom let me go. My back immediately felt cold and lonely… bereft. 

Tom silently padded over to the tea cupboard and went about making a pot of tea. He never let me make tea. He says it always tastes like I’d dredged it up from the bottom of Boston Harbor. Wretch. It isn’t that bad! I mean, tea is tea, right?

Reaching over my shoulder, he closed the refrigerator, tugged me over to the table and sat me in front of a mug of tea, before sitting next to me in front of his own cup.

He picked his mug up and inhaled the steam, visibly relaxing. I could really envy these Brits for the almost autonomic calming response they have for a 'cuppa’. Don’t get me wrong, I like tea just fine, but for 'relaxing and calming’, I’d just as soon have a beer. Now I thought about it, I’d just as soon have a beer right now.

"Well.” he said, looking at me through the scented steam rising from the cup cradled in his hands, his elbows propped on the table, “Now I know where your 'off switch’ is located.”

“Yeah.” I laughed mirthlessly, “I didn’t even know that one was there. Sorry.”

“Darling, I hardly think that you should be apologizing to me for having some kind of trigger. I’m only sorry that I touched it, however inadvertently." He set his cup down and reached across to take my hand, staring at and playing with my fingers.

I was just so overwhelmed at a guy, any guy, even Tom, paying attention, and well.. contemplating my emotional reaction to something so unexpected and non-sensical. I could feel tears start to well in my eyes, which I firmly blinked back. I looked up at his face to see that he looked concerned.

"You know, dear Jen, that you don’t have to do that. You don’t have to fight back tears or wear a game-face with me." His thumb rubbed circles over the back of my hand, and he looked into my eyes.

My tears spilled over.

"Of course I do, you goof! Look at you!" Tears were gathered in the corners of his eyes. "You’re a 'team cry-er’! Every time I tear up, so do you!”

I gave out a watery chuckle, as I scrubbed my hands over my face, drying my tears.

Tom tipped his head back and laughed, stretching that beautiful column of neck back, practically daring me not to take a bite out of that delicious adam’s apple.  
I guess I must be feeling better, I’m back to my normal state of being abnormally aware of the sheer masculine sensuousness that is Tom. I shifted in my seat a bit.

“Ahh, on a related note…” He paused and I peered up at him questioningly.

“I signed the contracts for a new role today.”

My brow furrowed. “Um… mazel tov?” I didn’t see what the one had to do with the other.

And then the penny dropped. Oh crap.

"It’s a biopic. I have the lead.”

I raised my eyebrows in query.

“Hank Williams." He was watching my reaction closely.

I was silent, rifling through my head for a suitable, or even acceptable response. Nope, not that. Or that. Definitely not THAT! So, the best I could come up with was; 

"Well ok then! I’m sure you’ll be brilliant as usual!" I beamed at him, trying not to sound snarky. Tom burst out laughing.

"Jesus, darling! I could practically read every thought in your head just then by watching you click through expressions!”

“Tom? Are you laughing at me?" I asked with a little hurt.

"No, no, darling! Not at all! I just love watching you. Your face is so mobile and expressive. I love your willingness to emote!”

I snorted. Such an actor-term, emote. Tom’s problem is not that he’s a guy. It’s that he’s nearly always an actor first. An actor with an insatiable curiosity, and a thirst for applying what he learns to his craft. It’s sometimes endearing, but occasionally I feel like a bug under a microscope. This time I wasn’t feeling too amused.

“So, this movie…" I invited him to elaborate.

It’s just… Williams had this enormous influence on American music. Many hailed him as an icon, and yet he had this painful, tragically short life. It’s just sort of…soulful, I guess.”

I gagged.

“Soulful?! What is this sick fascination you brits have for American country and western music?! I simply don’t get it! That whole cheesy (I deepened my voice and unearthed my childhood twang) "Mah woman done lef’ me an’ took mah truck, an’ mah dawg too, an’ lef me broke an’ sad, 'cause Ahm a cheatin’ sorry, drunk excuse fer a man'…-thing. What is UP with that? Are you kidding?! That’s not soulful, it’s degrading. It’s ignorant. It’s arrogant. It’s- 'Ah can treat mah woman any way Ah want, an’ she has to love me anyway, an’ put up with all mah shit, 'cause otherwise she’s just a slut. Ahm a big, fat American good ol’ boy prick! America, FUCK YEAH!”

I finished my rant in a deep booming (for me) voice, with a shout and both fists high in the air.

Gods, I don’t know how he stands me sometimes. Hell, I don’t know how I stand me, sometimes.

Tom sat back in his chair, his eyebrows practically in his hairline, staring at me.

I had to calm myself down. I breathed heavily, and pinched the bridge of my nose. I looked at his worried face. His dear worried face. I blew out my breath, and got a grip.

“Darling? Is this going to be a problem for us?”

And there he is. The man who sees me and cares. The man who doesn’t ask, even by inference, if this is going to be a problem for HIM. No, He wants to know if it’s a problem for US. As if my problem is equally his problem. This is OUR problem.

I sucked it up.

“Nope. Because you’re going to take me to the premiere and you’re going to hold my hand and watch the film with me. And I’m going to pull up my big-girl panties and watch you knock up your first Oscar." I laid my hand on his cheek.

He grinned in relief at me, and turned his head to kiss my palm sweetly. His eyes suddenly crinkled over my hand, and he ran his tongue up my palm.  
My breath hitched and warmth bloomed in my chest, as he stood and pulled me to my feet. He twined his fingers in mine and led me by the hand back to bed. 

And there he showed me how much he loved me. In a British accent.


End file.
